


No Fine Feathers

by servantofclio



Series: Branwen Lavellan [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5035624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Lavellan ended up wearing that uniform to the Winter Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Fine Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> I was contemplating what my Lavellan might have worn to the ball, and no matter how I imagined it, she refused to wear a fancy dress. I was forced to conclude that some Inquisitors might actually prefer the uniform, and that it probably went down like this:

The preparations for the ball at the Winter Palace went swimmingly, until the dressmaker arrived.

“I can’t,” said Inquisitor Lavellan.

The Inquisitor had been cooperating until then, and Josephine recognized the patience and discipline that she was employing, spending long hours under Josephine’s tutelage with little complaint. There were the dancing lessons, which she had taken well enough to, and then there were the manners and formal Orlesian phrases, and memorizing different types of masks, and the names and ranks of the most important people she was likely to encounter. All of that, she had done, but now she balked in the doorway, faced with bolts of velvet and brocade and crepe. Josephine had rather thought this would be the fun part.

“Your Worship—” she began.

“No, I can’t,” Branwen Lavellan insisted, her voice rising a little. “You don’t understand, I… I never wear skirts, they trip me up, I don’t know how to manage them—”

“It is important to give the correct impression,” Leliana pointed out.

Branwen muttered something in Dalish. Josephine was not sure of the words, but there was no mistaking the tone for anything but a curse.

“Fine,” Branwen said at last, squaring her shoulders. Her face, though, was pinched in an utterly miserable expression. “You’ll… you’ll see.”

Soon enough, Josephine did. Branwen stood stiffly while the dressmaker (recommended by both Vivienne and Leliana) draped and pinned and tucked and fitted, trying one thing after another, but nothing quite worked. The green was flattering enough to her coloring, but everything else went terribly. She blushed to reveal the fashionable amount of decolletage, and not a becoming blush, either: her skin turned a dull, unattractive brick-red. The styles current for formal ball gowns were intended for softly rounded ladies of leisure, Josephine reflected, not for the sinew and wiry muscle of a woman who spent most of her time in the field. And Branwen was right — she did not know how to manage her skirts. She moved oddly gracelessly, half tripping when the fabric pooled around her feet.

Even in the loveliest silks, with the talents of a skilled dressmaker at her service, she looked stiff and awkward and… small. It had been months since Josephine had truly registered how diminutive Lavellan was; ordinarily she had enough confidence and force of personality to make one forget. But now, clad in Orlesian finery, she looked tiny, like a doll or a child playing dress-up. Or — the unpleasant thought registered — like a servant, wearing her mistress’s cast-offs, the object of some elaborate joke. Josephine cast an apprehensive glance at Leliana, who watched the proceedings with narrowed eyes.  
“Well,” Josephine said, to fill the silence as Branwen tripped over her skirts again. “We shall have to work on this, as well.” 

Branwen sighed. “I’m going to have to learn the dances all over again.”

This was probably true. Josephine put on a smile to cover her dismay. They had so little time left before the needed to depart.

She confessed the whole dreadful afternoon to Cassandra, later, over a glass of wine, pouring out her frustration in a flood of words, and faltered when she saw the expression on Cassandra’s face. “What?”

Cassandra shook her head, her lips pulling into a brief, spare smile. “Not all of us are suited for flourishes and finery, Josephine. For some of us, such things are simply a trial. There must be another solution.”

Josephine sighed; it was far too late for her to see the solution, and she resolved to sleep on it. So many problems were more easily handled after a night’s rest.

It was the Inquisitor herself who proposed the solution, however, the next day, after three hours spent stumbling through dance forms she had known perfectly well a week earlier. “Can’t I just wear the uniform?”

“It may not show you to best effect,” Leliana said, while Josephine hesitated. She was not entirely pleased about the uniforms herself, and would have preferred to wear one of her own best gowns.

“But you said,” Branwen said, raising her eyes, “you said it would set us outside the Game. That it would show we are a power unto ourselves, that we are—” Her fist clenched. “—straightforward, no masks, no hidden agenda. We do not need to play at our roles. The uniform represents our roles, and makes us more visible, for the guests to seek out. Shouldn’t I be as visible?”

Leliana and Josephine exchanged glances. She had a point. “Perhaps you are right,” Josephine offered.

“We do have more than enough material,” Leliana added.

In uniform breeches and coat, Lavellan stood straight again. She could handle the dance steps with verve, and even managed a smile and a bit of flirtation as she practiced speeches with Leliana. It was a pity, really; the dress had been quite lovely, and the particular shade of red of the coat did not suit her coloring at all. 

It was worth it, though, to see her again projecting that confidence they had all come to rely on.


End file.
